you are the poems i do not write
by words-with-dragons
Summary: A collection of oneshots centring around the relationship of Angelica Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton. AUs and canon abound, as does Eliza. Ch4: Alexander in the wake of Angelica's wedding toast.
1. buried in trinity church (near you)

buried in trinity church (near you)

Angelica hadn't expected death to come so quickly. As women with no war for many years now, she had always thought that once you dodged the bullet of dying in childbirth, you were entitled to live a long, happy life. Clearly, for once, she had been wrong. Wrong that little girls could grow up with their father's fairytales in their minds, and actually see their happily ever after come to fruition. Wrong that all her children would live, like Richard and Alexander II, God rest their tiny souls.

But she had been right, that she would never have to know a world without her sister, Eliza. Right that she would reach death's doorstep first.

Her breathing was laboured, her skin losing warmth and colour. The sheets of the bed she had always slept in whenever she visited her sister's home should have felt soft, but were rough and itchy, swathing her in white cloth. Beads of sweat lined her brow, until a cool, wet cloth was laid over it, gently dabbing.

"Angelica."

Eliza's voice sounded far away, but Angelica tried to ground herself to it anyway. "Yes, Betsey?"

"How are you feeling?"

"D-dreamlike," she managed, even if the truth was closer to a nightmare. Who knew death could be so slow? She craned her neck, forcing her eyes open, and looking around the familiar room. Sunlight was filtered in through the window, and there were a stack of books, volumes about politics, resting on her bedside table, when she noticed that her husband was gone. "John?"

"He's gone to fetch us some food," Eliza explained. She dragged the wet cloth across her sister's forehead.

Angelica had always been good at recognizing opportunities, even if she hadn't always seized them, but she knew she had to now, with whatever strength she had left. "Eliza, there is something... I need to tell you."

Eliza's brow furrowed, her long black hair falling over one cream coloured cheek. "Then speak," she said softly.

"Do you remember when Alexander died?"

Eliza's eyes immediately closed in grief, even after almost ten years since her husband's passing. "Yes," she said quietly, the single syllable trembling. Angelica knew her sister would never forget that day, even if she wanted to try.

"And the night we first met him?" A faint smile crossed Angelica's face, mirroring Eliza's. God, had that really been thirty-four years ago? They had all been so young, so full of hope, for that brief, shining night in winter. Or at least, she had been, in the first few minutes she'd met him. Before she had realized the truth of her circumstances, her responsibility to her sister. "Eliza, I..."

"He always spoke so fondly of you," said Eliza, and Angelica went quiet, not only because her throat hurt, but because she had waited, perhaps, her whole life, to hear these words. "Whenever a letter arrived from you from England, he would stop in the middle of working to read it. And you know how quickly his replies would come, despite their length."

She still had the letters he'd written her in a box tucked under her and John's bed. Along with some from Eliza (she needed the reminder, sometimes). After the Reynolds Pamphlet, she had nearly followed her sister's lead and burned them, but hadn't managed to bring herself to do it. She couldn't lose what had never been hers, and she couldn't manage to give up what she did have.

She was so grateful for it now.

"When we had our first daughter, he was the one who suggested for her to bear your name," Eliza continued. "And I thought it was a brilliant idea, it... was one of the things we instantly agreed upon."

"I'm glad," Angelica managed, her voice thick. "But Betsey—Eliza—"

"He loved you dearly, you know."

Her voice failed.

"I know in your last few years things were wrought with strife." Eliza was wiping away tears now. "At least until Philip died, and then... but I know you were fond of him as well."

"I loved him," Angelica burst. "Not like a brother, like—from the moment I met him, he enraptured me, but then I saw you, and you were—you were helpless. So I—" Tears pricked in her eyes. "I loved him from afar. Eliza, I'm sorry—"

"For what?"

"I loved a man who was your _husband_."

"You lived a life, unsatisfied, so that I could be happy." Tears were rolling down both of their cheeks. "And I do not know if I have ever thanked you, for always being there to rely on. For introducing him to me in the first place. My life would not be mine without you, Angelica. You have nothing to apologize for."

Angelica slowly closed her eyes, a teary smile of disbelief spreading across her face as Eliza reached over with a warm thumb to wipe away her elder sister's tears, for once. "Please don't tell John," she whispered. "I... have never wanted him to feel like the second choice."

"Of course." Eliza studied her for a moment. "I always suspected, you know. Your eyes when he died... you were the one who looked just as helpless."

Angelica puffed out a laugh. "I only wish I had told you sooner."

"Did you ever tell him?"

"Not in exact words, no. But in the toast I gave at your wedding... I don't think I ever had to tell him."

"You always were intellectual equals," said Eliza admiringly.

"You had the emotional capacity he needed. You were good for each other." Angelica coughed, her voice growing weak. "Through everything, I... I am glad you loved one another."

"I am glad you loved each other."

There was a long stretch where she could only hear her pounding, failing heartbeat. She didn't have long now. Was there a point of holding on until John back, if only to spare him guilt for leaving? She had loved him in her own way, after all, had raised their children together, even if he had never set her heart aflame.

She had been so cold for so long, and she suspected, her heart sinking, that Eliza had even longer to wait to see their beloved Hamilton again.

She turned her head towards the window, to look at the sky for the last time, a mild March day streaked with grey and blue, the sun poking out between two clouds. A church rose up on the horizon, in the distance, but she could still see the tallest spiral amid the grey sky.

"I know..." she began, and then cleared her throat. She was running out of time to get this out. Perhaps it would be easier to write with a quill? "I know family... is buried nearby. To one another. Do me this honour?" Angelica took a deep breath, reaching for her sister's hand. Eliza's skin was hot to the touch, as she grasped at her fingers, or was that her burning up instead? "I would never take your place—" Because her sister had to understand, she had to—

Eliza shushed her, pressing a kiss to her boiling forehead. "I know."

"Bury me... near him. Please. I do not want to be as far away from him in life... as I was in death..."

Eliza nodded, and Angelica quietly slipped away.

* * *

Two days after her sister's death, Eliza was going through Angelica's things. It was not the first time she had mourned a sister's death—Peggy had been taken so soon, so quickly, it still made her lungs close up and her heart ache with grief—but it was not any easier. She had long suspected that Angelica had loved Alexander; that hadn't been a surprise. But to have it confirmed, to have known that Angelica had carried what she considered to be a deep dark secret for so long made her want to weep in itself.

Alexander had been a very difficult man to love at times, but Eliza could understand perfectly well how easy it was to give your heart to him.

John had presented a few photographs of their children, a piece of their mother, Catherine's, jewelry to be buried with Angelica. The funeral was in another two days, so time was of the essence, which was how Eliza found herself gathering up loose items from her sister's room, which ones should be preserved, wondering if there were any books that should be buried with her as well. Thomas Paine's _Common Sense_ came to mind, as she thought of their younger, more reckless years.

She was checking under the bed, seeing her sister's old, worn slippers and a book that must have fell underneath, collecting dust, when she saw a periwinkle coloured box. She reached out and pulled it out from under the bed, hauling it to her knees, covered by a soft blue gown.

The box, it turned out, was full of letters and envelopes, yellowing with age. Some, she recognized as having her own handwriting, her sister's name written in neat print, but most were Alexander's, thick with blue seals stamped over the front. One letter was lying on top, flattened out because of how many times it had been read, the subsequent envelope tucked into the side of the box, separate from the others. What was so special about this letter, Eliza wondered, trying to decide if she should read it or not.

She recognized her husband's hurried but careful scrawl, and caught sight of the address before she could stop herself.

 _My dearest, Angelica_

The letter was buried with her sister two days later.


	2. dearest, comma

dearest, comma

 **Summary:** Angelica and Alexander finally talk about their letters, set during "Take a Break".

* * *

"You never did answer my question, you know."

The Hamilton house was quiet, for once, the way it only ever was at night. Eliza had put Philip to bed hours ago, retreating soon afterwards herself. Alexander, ever vigilant with scores of candles burned down to waxy stubs, went to his office once dinner had been finished, and Angelica, unable to help herself, had followed. To see him in his natural habitat was a gift, the soles on his wooden chair worn, papers stacked high on either side of his desk. Empty ink bottles were crammed onto every inch of desk and dress not covered by paper. A spare shirt was hung up on the dresser's doorknob, quills scattered over the table.

She had meant to be teasing, but something in her voice couldn't quite manage it.

Alexander tore his bleary eyes away from his papers. "I'm afraid I forget what that question was." But something in his eyes told her he hadn't, that he had thought about it just as much as she had. There had been so many weeks in between their latest letters, one more so than usual, and she'd wondered if he'd spent days with his quil half raised, agonizing over whether to make that faithful, dark curve on white parchment.

"It's late," he continued, never one to be silent for long. "Perhaps we should both retire to bed—"

"Did you mean it?" she whispered, eyes brown and soulful in the candlelight. Her cheeks heated up, knowing that she should have been stronger than this. That Hamilton had been married to her sister for ten years now, they had children together, and she lived on another continent—he shouldn't have been able to set her heart aflame like this, still.

And she'd never been able to stop herself, had she? The wedding toast, the letters, even asking such a thing of him... it was dangerous territory, dangerous wanting of the one thing she could not, under any circumstances have. What answer did she even want? If it was the one half of her heart wanted, it would leap with joy; and if it was the one the other half of her heart wanted, the one that had made that decision a million years ago, she'd want Alexander to be faithful to her sister and her sister alone, to not even entertain thoughts of her in the slightest, to—

"Yes."

He was standing now, moving towards her, dark tresses falling along his shoulders and the collar of his shirt.

Her breath caught in her throat, and Angelica swallowed. She felt speechless all over again. "Oh."

"I know that perhaps I shouldn't have," he admitted, stepping closer, and something flared in her chest. _Well,_ she thought shortly, _at least he's self-aware_. "But I fear that on ink, we are... rather more truthful than we are in life."

"The truth can be a terrible thing," she said thickly, composing herself.

"And a beautiful thing." He reached for her wrist, and she let him take it in a moment of weakness. "Angelica..."

"I think you were right, we should go to bed—"

"My dearest," he said softly, and she stilled, daring herself to look up into his warm eyes.

In another life, perhaps, she would have stepped into his arms and kissed him. Tangled her fingers through his when they wore matching wedding wings. Heard the term of endearment as many times as she wished—over and over again, murmured into her hair upon waking, in between guttural moans as he pushed her up against his desk and she helped him hike up her skirts.

But this was not her life, and she stepped away, drawing her arm back to herself. Because she had left the comma out of her letter, had written _My dearest Alexander_ before her heart could make her do otherwise.

She managed to smile at him. "Goodnight, Alexander."

She could feel his eyes on her as she left, shutting the door of his study close. Maybe it was more dangerous for him to come with them Upstate for the summer, but she wanted him to anyway. Even if it would hurt, at least he would be next to her, and next to her sister.

Angelica sighed once she reached his room, low and torn between heartbreak and relief.

Even when he was right next to her, he would always be a moment _away_.


	3. what might've been (if i hadn't-)

what might've been (if i hadn't—)

 **Summary:** AU; Angelica and Alexander get married instead of her and Eliza. All lyrics taken from Satisfied.

* * *

 _i. what might've been_

At the Winter's Ball, there is only two Schuyler sisters. Eliza is at home with their aunt, bed ridden with a cold, and Peggy sticks close to the refreshment tables and cocky drunk soldiers willing to make fools of themselves for her entertainment. Angelica is on the dance floor, dazzling the room, when she sees him.

Alexander says to Angelica, "You strike me as a woman who has never been satisfied," and there is no reason she cannot be. They have three dances in one night, and even steal away to the mansion's back gardens, hedges glistening with snow in the moonlight, and there's a glint in his eyes as she talks of politics a mile a minute, and he fires back his opinion, on and on they go, talking rushing bursting with words in a matter of minutes that would take most people a matter of hours.

She tells him, "Don't forget to write," and write he does. He sends her letters and letters and more letters, sometimes three in one day over the following week. He's eager bordering on the point of intruding, but she hardly minds, because his letters are full of thoughts, scribbles and blots leftover from the quickness of his quil, like he can't possibly get all this thoughts of politics and war and books out of his mind fast enough.

It's a hunger, a _desperation,_ she knows all too well, and behind a quil, she has always been able to hide her gender until her signature. This time, she does not have to hide her mind behind her skirts and pretend she agrees with the important men in the room when she doesn't.

Of course, she and Alexander disagree—intellectuals always do, with minds like lightning—but it's the way he argues, in ink or in person, that makes heat creep underneath her skin. He's passionate, rambling, rounding back to his first point in the end no matter how many tangents he's gone off on, and to hear him spit fire is better than any words from any holy book she's ever heard. He too, will let her say her piece, and concede, even if he still disagrees, that she has a point, and often times she will not give him that in turn.

She thinks she will never, ever tire of him.

Her sister Eliza is more quiet than usual in the weeks leading up to the wedding, and Angelica supposes she is saddened that her eldest sister will be leaving home soon, or perhaps she is consumed with preparing a wedding toast, for Angelica has picked Eliza as the maid of honour. There is guilt too, in the back of Angelica's mind, in the knowledge at the very least the burden of marrying for money has now fallen to Eliza, but her younger sister has always been so kind hearted, Angelica believes she could grow to love just about anyone. A sharper, even less welcome thought pricks at her mind when Angelica sees Eliza's dark eyes follow Alexander as he leaves, tracking his footsteps, but she pushes it away.

She met and fell for Alexander first, weeks before Eliza had a chance to, when things were already too in motion to slow down. And besides, if Eliza did love Alexander, surely she would tell Angelica? Doesn't she know her sister would sacrifice anything for her happiness? Eliza says she's fine. It must be the truth.

Some part of Angelica knows it's a lie, but she ignores it.

For the first time in her life, she feels satisfied. She is not going to let that go.

 _ii. where's your family from?_

When Angelica learns they're going to be a family, proper and true, excitement ignites in her stomach, almost immediately cloaked by fear. Alexander has received money from General Washington of course, but not nearly enough to sustain her for long without more coming in the mail, and the revolution is still well underway. She keeps the bitter letters her husband sends from the front in a box under the bed, along with all the pages he wrote her during their courtship—she'll need another box soon, this one almost too full to be fully closed.

She thinks of the life growing inside her and knows their child will have its father's wit, its mother's refined education and sharp mind, its father's rapid tongue. Their child will shake the world to its core, the way her husband is with every bomb and letter on the battlefield. They'll build a new country and world for their child, and she only hopes the cost won't be too high. She has lost very little other than her intellectual satisfaction in a world that doesn't welcome it, and Alexander has lost so much— _I was twelve when my mother died_ , he told her, one snowy night, _we were sick and she was holding me; I couldn't seem to die_ —she knows he doesn't deserve to lose his life, too.

And if she does lose him, at least she knows she has spared Eliza from the deepest depths of grief, of being a young, pregnant widow.

She doesn't write letters to General Washington, asking for her husband to come home. The war is too important to him, for a reckless, hungry spirit, but she's still more than relieved when he visits her on a partial discharge—more relieved and proud when he comes back from Yorktown.

And after the war, they go back to New York.

 _ii. you're like me: i'm never satisfied_

They name their baby boy Philip. Angelica had suggested perhaps Alexander's mother's name, if it was a girl, or some variation of Elizabeth, and even still Philip's middle name is Elijah, for her sister. Her sister visits shortly after the birth, with Peggy and the rest of the family of course, and they coo over the baby which is the best parts of her and Alexander: her dark skin, her hair with his face, his hungry eyes (even if their son is only hungry for more breastmilk, and not endless ambition).

The news of John Lauren's death leaves a different, gaping hole in Alexander that even ambition can't fill. Angelica knows they were close—perhaps closer than she would ever dare ask outright—and that grief is a terrible, heavy thing that Alexander already knows all too well. On bad nights, when he can't write, she goes and sits with him in the study and gives him a book to read, any book, just as a distraction. It's the same way he coped when his mother died. And on nights that doesn't work either, she lets him hold his son until Philip is hungry.

Most nights, though, Alexander writes. Angelica does too, circling his errors and occasional run on sentences, penning her own ideas, reading over his case files and thick books a man can rightfully purchase that she can't, and she reads them on the stoops outside the courthouse. He marks her writings with his apparent initials, _A. HAM_ , which stands for both of them, now, even if the rest of the world will never acknowledge it. He comes home fuming after Aaron Burr refuses to help him write the Federal Papers, and Angelica lends her services instead. They'll be published under his name, of course, but their writing styles are consistent and similar enough that no one will know the difference. In the span of six months, they write nearly eighty-five essays, one of hers to every four of his.

When he becomes Treasury Secretariat, she knows under Washington's government he can do the brilliant things his brain—and hers—has always dreamed of. She helps him host fine dinners than even prissy Jefferson can't snub, and in the fall out with Madison she reads over Alexander's pseudonym writings to make sure that while cut throat and efficient against his opponents, they aren't easily tracked by his trademark writing style.

They both write to Eliza, too, who dotes on her godson through her letters. She seems happy with John Church in England, already expecting a little one on her own, and Angelica prays for her safety, even if neither she or Alexander have ever put much stock in religion. She and her husband have more children too. They take the growing gaggle of kids to bookstores and libraries, and Alexander enjoys spoiling them and her, now that for the first time he actually has money to do so.

For every wedding anniversary (five, seven, nine) she gets him new quills made of fine feathers. He always breaks the tip sooner or later, from pressing too hard against the parchment, moments she usually takes as enough of a pause to drag away his breeches and put his hands up her skirts. Half their children are conceived in his study or in their bed, and he still brings her the same pleasure he did on their wedding night, if not more so, now that they've learned the lines of each other's bodies. The hunger for each other has not died, she doesn't think it ever will.

She plays with his silky hair in bed and he kisses her smooth shoulder, and she thinks that perhaps, this is the closest they can ever come to being satisfied. It is more than enough.

 _iii. the conversation lasted two minutes, maybe three minutes_

Until the debt plan, anyway.

Conversations that used to last hours, when nursing, or when their children were finally all in bed, or during nights when he was scribbling away and she can't sleep, are suddenly stilted. She and Alexander are used to disagreeing, but aren't used to not talking. Discussions turn into debates which turn into arguments, but they're always talking talking talking—and it's only when they aren't that she knows something is terribly wrong.

At first, she thinks it's just the stress, or the loneliness. She hadn't wanted to leave him alone for the summer, while she and Eliza (having travelled across the ocean) went to visit their father upstate. Angelica doesn't back down, when Alexander insists that he can't leave until he gets his debt plan through congress, and they yell themselves hoarse until they wake up their youngest from a nap, and Angelica reluctantly leaves to take care of them.

Her husband is a grown man, but if he wants to act like a child and not listen to reason, then it's not her problem. She sends a letter home a few weeks into her and Eliza's visit upstate, hoping that maybe Alexander has cooled down enough, and knows that he's still welcome to come.

His reply is long, assuring her he is more than alright staying home in the city, but his lines are slanted, and it cues her in that something really is wrong. His writing is always hurried, but never slanted, as though desperate, in the same way. A workaholic he may be, but the drops of ink scattered throughout the page, as though he had to stop and think of what to say, is so unlike him. She resolves when she comes home with the children in September, she will sit him down and talk through his debt plan with him, brainstorm the ideas of how to get it through. Maybe she can even appeal to Jefferson by throwing a dinner party and ask for him to serve everyone his horrid recipe of mac n' cheese.

There are so many rushed moments when arriving home—getting the children situated, namely, after a cooped up carriage ride and unpacking belongings, books—it takes until nightfall for her and Alexander to have a moment alone. He looks simmered down, the fire in his eyes tampered and drowning, and he kisses her with an aching mouth before she can even say a word to him.

An apology for not coming up state?

Either way, she melts into him, lets him push her up against his desk and hike up her skirts, finishing once before they stumble upstairs and undress fully. The bed is surprisingly messy, but it fills her with hope to think he's been sleeping in it as of late, instead of just passing out at his desk, and the observation is a fleeting one before she's much too distracted by what he's doing with his wonderful mouth and deft hands.

In the morning they wake early and talk, cheeks pressed to pillows, and everything is fine.

Even if his fire never comes back quite the same when he looks at her.

 _iv. every part aflame_

She tears through the Reynolds Pamphlet with a morbid heartache once it's published, disgusted, repulsed, betrayed, yet unable to shy away from his words, begrudged to critique it the way she would of any other piece of his writing—and this by far is the weakest piece he's ever written. Senseless, paranoid, obsessive, boastful and ashamed all at once. She tears the papers apart next, fingers fastened into fists and she rips off her wedding ring too―because he might as well have, too, letting that woman into their bed. For kissing her and touching her with a mouth that was only supposed to be Angelica's.

She thought he was hers.

She knows better now.

She tosses the pieces of the pamphlet and her heart into the fire, and when he arrives home, sheepish and shamefaced, she is waiting for him. He was always too impatient to wait for anything, but at least now he is silent. She thinks that if he talked it would only make her angrier―or perhaps, but a smack in the face, that he hasn't changed at all―but for once, she is nearly speechless. What do you say to someone who betrays you by twisting a knife in your heart? A knife you placed there when you chose your own happiness over your sister's.

(Perhaps this is karma, but a saving grace is that at least Eliza was not hurt like this. Angelica always knew her self-preservation would get her in trouble someday.)

She is almost speechless, but not quite.

Her words are more vicious than eloquent, more shredded than saddened. In another life, she calls him Icarus. In this one, she calls him Judas, paints her heart on the cross and dares him to burn her again, asks him how he could, and yet she knows the answer anyway. Legacy.

She makes sure he can see her, as she burns his letters―the best pieces of himself, lovestruck and earnest and ethereal in its beauty, gone, never to be surfaced again.

She hates him because he loved him.

He is exiled to his office, and Eliza comes to stay―Eliza, with glassy eyes and a shattered heart too, more bitter and angry than Angelica has ever seen her. Eliza truly is her saving grace, coaxing her into conversation, sharing stony stares at her blasted husband, helping her care for her children.

Angelica only speaks to him once, to give back her wedding ring. He broke all his promises; he was never satisfied with her.

She owes him nothing else of her life.

 _v. helpless_

Philip dies in November and winter has never felt so cold.

(Angelica has grown used to cold; it permeates the walls of her house and her ribcage, ice where her heart should be. Hamilton set her aflame once, but the fire tampered down after the pamphlet and she will never let him strike a match again. Their children notice it, of course—how could they not, with two parents reluctantly still living together in a mansion that was once overflowing of speech now stilted in silence. Sometimes, he says her name, and then catches himself, knows he no longer deserves to, and she never looks at him or speaks to him unless she has to. Her anger is ice, but it is still searing.)

Her son's blood is hot, gushing, pooling and dripping over the table. Her hands press against it, while Hamilton cradles Philip's head in unworthy hands.

 _Who did this—Alexander, did you know?_

She cannot remember the first time she has turned to him for knowledge, for anything, but watching her son slip away right before her eyes has a way of melting the heart. Panic, she supposes. But now Philip is turning to her for comfort, brown curls falling over a lined brow of an otherwise young face, now marred by pain. His brown eyes—Alexander's—are trembling as much as her hands, as she reaches for his, and remembers.

Remembers teaching him the alphabet, teaching him the piano. After completing his scales, she'd let him read a book with her, as a reward. She taught him how to write as much as his father did. She taught him how to count, how to handle the money he would one day inherit—Hamilton had never known how to handle it, for all his genius in financial government plans. Never adjusted to how to live with money rather than write or dream about it.

"I'm sorry for forgetting, what you taught me."

It registers, numbly, that her son is on his deathbed, and is apologizing. She has never felt so helpless.

(When the last breath leaves him, Angelica feels her heart burn to ash, leaving bitter remains. She tastes of heartbreak and wrenches her hand out of Hamilton's when he goes to comfort her. She screams. If she has to lose her son, then he should have to lose them both. He is dead to her now, too.)

Eliza is the one who gets her walking and talking and sleeping and eating again. This time, Angelica does not want to be saved.

 _vi. you forget yourself_

Angelica retreats. They move uptown. Hamilton takes the children to church alone. She has no love for God, or time. She thinks, cruelly, she understands her husband's obsession with writing now more than ever. It is from a fear of grief, not death; she thinks she would welcome the latter now, if not for her remaining children. She writes letters and letters, demanding stricter laws to strike down duelling, to persecute Eacker, to—

She writes down every single thing she can remember about Philip, and whenever Hamilton disturbs her in what she's made her study—to ask her to sleep, eat, to speak with Eliza, surely she must want to speak to her sister—she takes the stack and burns it, and starts from scratch. He does not deserve any of her memories.

When she is not writing, she is with her children. Her daughter, Angelica Jr., has a vacant look on her face and speaks as though Philip is still alive. Sometimes, when the grief is too heavy and she does not think she can rise, Angelica indulges and joins her.

And yet, Angelica forgets herself, or she wishes to. Wishes to give into her grief and sob until she can't any longer, to have a companion who understands the grief of losing a child. It is so terrible a burden, even she is not selfish enough to wish that on Eliza, if only to have someone who understands wholly the shards of her shattered heart.

If choosing her own happiness over her sister's has saved her sister this pain, then perhaps she has done one thing right in a life full of loving the wrong man.

There is never a moment she wants to forget herself more—forget her anger, heartache, dignity—when Hamilton looks at her with those eyes that made her fall for him in the first place, shining with concern and care as he tries to coax her into taking care of herself, of eating, of coming to bed, even if they have slept in separate rooms for years now. Alexander cares as passionately as he writes, even if he hasn't written since Philip's death, has barely talked, except to her and occasionally to their children. It is almost enough, when he does manage to convince her—even if she clarifies she is doing what he asked, not because he asked, but because she made the decision herself—to make her want to forget he once cared so little for her at all.

Her breaking point is Philip's birthday at the end of January, and she can remember the days that followed it, how small and soft and perfect he was. Untouched, untainted. So alive. She weeps until her pillow is stained with tears, and doesn't stop even when the door creaks open. Alexander's hands find her shoulders, curves her body towards his—maybe he heard her on his way to bed from his study—and Angelica lets herself sob into his chest, for herself, not for him. He smooths down her hair and holds it and she will never admit aloud how much she doesn't want him to leave her, too. (It is always better to leave first.)

He stays with her until she falls asleep, and looks ragged in the morning, like he hasn't slept a wink, but when her eyes harden at the sight of him, he goes and gets the children ready for Sunday mass.

On an impulse, Angelica joins him and they both stop in the archway of the old cathedral, and when she prays she remembers how he built her one once, in letters now burned.

Afterwards, he takes to walking with her wherever she goes, chatting a soft, aimless, and one-sided conversation. About the weather, the children, Philip—"He would like it uptown, don't you think? It's quiet uptown."—but she can't find it in her to berate him for it, or send him away. She has spent too long in the silence, and not enough in the quiet.

He asks for her opinion softly, too. "Do you like it uptown? It's quiet uptown."

She can't find it in her to speak, but she nods. For the first time, it is enough for both of them.

In the end, it is a day in the garden, in one of the rare moments he went outside without her, that reaps her forgiveness. He's sitting on a bench, scribbling furiously, but there are tear stains blotting the page and his inkwell is nearly empty. He stands, startled, at the sight of her, mumbles in a way he only has since they fell apart.

"H-here." He holds out the pages, tightly held in his hands: an unfinished letter. "For you."

Angelica shakes her head, and sits down on the bench. "Say it yourself."

He destroyed their lives with a pen. She burned his letters with fire. But his voice, and his face and eyes, are not yet ruined for her, even if they should be.

Alexander swallows, graying hair falling in front of his glasses as he glances downwards, and then sits next to her. His words are soft too, sorrowful, sounding as terrible as she feels even if they are far more simplistic in language. It is the first time she has ever seen grief slow him down instead of speed him up, and it makes her wonder how many more years she will spend hating him. She knows that if she could make another choice and never meet him, never love nor marry him, she wouldn't. Not only to spare Eliza the burden, but also...

An inkling of heat sparks in her heart again. She can breathe a little easier.

She cuts him off mid sentence. "Are you satisfied, yet?"

He swallows again, his watery eyes meeting hers. "No," he whispers hoarsely. "Not until I see him, on the other side."

"But in this life?" Her hand inches towards his. "In our... in our marriage."

"Yes. Are you satisfied, here?"

She takes his hand, and exhales, nodding. "It's quiet uptown."

(Satisfaction is nothing, when compared to forgiveness.)

 _vii. i remember that night_

Shortly after the election, Angelica finds him at his desk. The candles are burning low, throwing his tresses into light, and she bends down, having half a mind to pluck his quil from his hands. Must he always write like he is running out of time? "Come back to bed," she presses, her lips meeting his cheek.

Alexander melts into her touch like candle wax. "I have an early meeting out of town. I'll be back before you open your eyes."

She smiles slightly. He knew as well as she did she was an early riser, especially after Philip died. "Don't make promises you can't keep, love," she chides, but squeezes his shoulder. Lets him go.

His hand catches hers on the way out, and he lifts it to his lips, the way he did a million years ago, when they first met. When she thought him nothing but a foolhardy boy with a silver tongue. And her, perpetually unsatisfied.

Until now, when he says, "Best of wives, best of women," she goes to bed warm.

She does not wake up so.

 _viii. for the rest of my days_

She lives ten long years without him. She spends the time compiling what writing still exists, putting up with Jefferson, Madison and Adams alike smearing his name through the mud. Not a day goes by she does not miss him, and the rooms of their house is full of words she wanted to say when they were not speaking, the time they wasted, the time they run out of. She prays her own will soon, too. Their home is full of all the things they did say.

He was an Icarus after all. She wonders if she was the sea, there to catch him when he fell. To watch him die in her arms, and see the other side in his lovely eyes.

Life was always too little for a man like him.

On her deathbed, she makes Eliza swear to carry on his legacy, their legacy, and her sister—ever trusting, dutiful, kind—swears upon her life that she will. It is all Angelica can ask for.

On the other side, there is only two Schuyler sisters. Peggy greets her at the gates, and then Alexander, bemused, heavenly. He wraps her up in his arms. He never lets go.


	4. (may you) always

a/n: szin did a "hamilton in 7 minutes" animatic on youtube and their version of satisfied within it absolutely wrecked me and also made me decide i should really try to put my longtime headcanon into actual words (in this case, a drabble) so i highly recommend watching that because A) it's awesome and B) it'll show the mood i'm trying to capture here, and then you can tell me if i accomplished that. either way, hope you guys like the heartbreak

* * *

 **(may you) always**

Eliza had never been one to grab the spotlight, but Alexander was glad to see her wedding day was an exception. His bride was beautiful, glowing with shining eyes, and all the breath had whooshed right out of him when he'd seen her gliding down the aisle towards him on her father's arm. What had he ever done to be so lucky? To have a kind, warm woman as his wife in the coldest of winters, and to have a father-in-law willing to place a bet on a penniless orphan.

Eliza had said, after their union had gained Philip Schuyler's permission, that the wager had largely been given because of Angelica's assurances she would secure their family's fortune. That, in addition to being the one to introduce them... Alexander wondered if he would ever stop owing her for the joy Eliza had already given him in his life—he had never been so confident that everything would be okay like he was when he was writing or talking with Eliza—especially after Angelica could've taken offence from his flirty nature. He'd thought he'd wooed her, surely; she'd seemed so intrigued, and he had to admit, as a man with eyes, that she was as beautiful as she was intelligent, which was saying something, but clearly she hadn't been as charmed as he had believed.

No matter, though. As much as Angelica may have been his intellectual equal, with a fire behind her eyes, his affections for her weren't returned and he was so grateful and lucky to have Eliza. To fall for two Schuyler sisters could have been so unfortunate, if Eliza hadn't fallen for him. He would've been besotted and rejected and still with hardly a penny nor wife to his name, and in time, Eliza would be enough and he would forget his flirtations with Angelica. The way she'd set him aflame.

And at his wedding, it was true that Alexander hardly spared the oldest Schuyler sister a thought or a glance. He only had eyes and a mind for his new wife, his heart burbling over with love every time their eyes met or he caught sight of her wedding band and wide smile. And despite being Maid of Honour—Eliza had been debating whether to ask Peggy or Angelica, as choosing between sisters was like choosing between two halves of a whole heart; Alexander had been the one to suggest the latter, as she had introduced them and would likely be married soon herself, and unable to be a true Maid of Honour—he'd hardly seen Angelica all night. She seemed to be making herself scarce, while Laurens had stayed drinking with the boys and was a little tipsy, like usual.

Alexander would check on him later, a simmering heat in his heart knowing that Laurens had to understand, wouldn't he? And it didn't seem like Eliza was worried about her sister either, content to dazzle the room for once and be happy and in love, and Alexander banished all other thoughts except to join her in her revelry.

It was only when they had wined and dined for a bit, the meal coming to a close, that it was time for time for the speeches, and Alexander took the chance, before his attentions would have to be directed elsewhere, to steal another kiss from Eliza.

"Alright alright," Laurens broke in, raising a glass and only stumbling slightly. Either that meant he wasn't as drunk as Alexander thought, or far more drunk than he thought, but Lafayette was standing nearby, and Alex knew he'd take care of him. "That's what I'm talking about!" Laurens crowed.

Angelica seemed to appear from nowhere beside him, out from the crowd, dressed in a pretty gown not unlike the one Alexander had met in her, and graciously took the glass of wine Laurens offered her with a far steadier hand. "Now," he continued. "Everyone give it up for the Maid of Honour, Angelica Schuyler!"

Angelica smiled at the polite applause proceeding the announcement, and then raised her glass. Alexander kept one hand in Eliza's as the newlyweds and everyone else mirrored the gesture, while Angelica turned her attention from the rest of the room to the new married couple.

"A toast to the groom," she began, her eyes flitting over to him, and their eyes met despite himself. There was that same heat, intensity, behind hers, but it seemed simmered down. Clearly, she looked at everyone like that. It was just her way, even if her gaze softened when she rested her eyes on her sister, and drew Peggy in with an arm tuck. "To the bride! From your sister, who is always by your side! To your union—"

"To the revolution," the soldiers chimed in, and Angelica raised her glass a little higher. In the brief conversations they'd had since the winter's ball, Alexander knew she was a great proponent of the revolution and didn't mind the addition.

"And the hope that you provide," Angelica proclaimed, and her eyes drifted to him. She was crying, her smile wide, so why did her eyes look so pleading? "May you always be _satisfied_!"

It hit him like a lightning bolt. Not unlike she had, on the dance floor, lit aglow with candlelight, like a dream you couldn't quite place. He had never been in such a fancy well dressed place before—a perk of being Washington's aide de camp, apparently, and one he'd been keen to enjoy. When he had heard the Schuyler sisters would be there as well (John, the gossip that he was had wheedled it out of Burr) it seemed a good a time as any to try his luck.

And then he'd seen her, intelligent, dazzling—never satisfied, a kindred spirit like him—and found he didn't care who her family was; it had just been a bonus, a very heavy handed bonus that had made him not mind being handed over to Eliza, who was graceful and sweet and intelligent in her own way, but content. But he had thought... he had truly thought he'd been imagining the flirtation on Angelica's side, at the ball, when she seemed to let her sister whisk him away without a second thought, had introduced them, even. She'd been polite, a champion for her sister's happiness, but had barely spoke to him in the week or so leading up to the wedding. Peggy had been far more chatty, going so far as to confide in him. Angelica had been distant, and he had chalked it up to her sadness at her sister leaving home...

But now clearly, that hadn't been the case at all—or at least, only partially.

She loved him. He knew it. Perhaps even loved her too. And it was too late.

(Even if now, she would always be in his thoughts; now, he would never be satisfied.)


End file.
